


On the River

by valderys



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Community: talechallenge22, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-19
Updated: 2010-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-07 09:23:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prompt Marigold gave me was to write about Merry and Pippin's (and Boromir's if I liked) reactions at Merry coming so close to being hit with the orc arrow in the boat on the Anduin, and what were their thoughts at the Nazgûl suddenly being able to fly.  I have to say, I didn't completely fulfil this, because mostly these are only Merry's thoughts :)  Written in 2003.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the River

His hands are throbbing after all that paddling. It is said, at home, that a good days work can be foretold by the tingle in your fingers, and a bad days work by the pricking in your thumbs. Merry wonders if his aching palms mean that this is going to be a very good day, or an exceptionally bad one.

He huddles in the boat and catches his breath. It is as black as pitch this night, with only the stars shining cold and distant. They have a fire of their own, Merry knows, but his hands sting too much right now, and he is too cold, to find much comfort in the knowledge. Dully, he realises he cannot even be properly frightened, despite knowing that there are orcs on the far bank, and that they have been paddling for their very lives. He watches Legolas spring out of his boat, bow in hand, and can only think, stupidly, that it is too far, and surely too dark, for even Legolas' eyes to make a difference. He could almost be grumpy about such nimbleness, after the night's labours and the pain of being miserably curled up in these boats for so many hours, except that the thought smacks of churlishness, and Merry, more than anyone, knows he can be unfair when so very tired.

Then he watches cloud come boiling in, sees it cover even the star's distant beacons, and finds he still feels enough himself to shiver a little, at the omen. So it seems all of a piece, when a great winged shape comes sweeping out of the blackness, and guttural shouts from the orcs rise up from the other bank to meet it.

There is a twanging noise, and a guttering scream, as Legolas deals with the beast, but Merry is barely sensible of the creature's fall, or of the disappointed wailing that follows. He finds himself inexplicably bent over, his breath coming faint and shallow, and his sight seeming clouded, hard to tell though it is, in the deep place he seems to find himself in. The light here is not just absent but seems to be turned into a thick blanket of choking darkness, of smothering cold.

He is barely aware then, of the lunge across the boat, and a sudden smothering of a different kind, the strong smell of oil and leather pierces his stupor, but only faintly.

"I only stepped out for a moment," Merry murmurs, "For the air, you know. I think… I think I am fallen into deep water."

There is shouting now, of a different kind, and Pippin's voice is piping his own questions, and it all seems a little too much for Merry. He is drowning. Surely he is drowning. There is a rumbling, and Merry believes he recognises it. Being smothered against Boromir's chest is not a new experience, and if only he could feel it, then he might be content. Good old Boromir will bring him back, somehow, though. Bound to. Good old Boromir.

Then the whisper reaches him, which might have been breathed a thousand years ago, or only a few moments, _Elbereth Gilthoniel_… And as quickly as that Merry is back in the boat, half-leaning over the side, and the only thing preventing him from toppling into the water is Boromir's strong right arm around his middle. There is a nasty black shaft of an arrow by his hand, and Boromir is asking him where he is struck, where does it hurt, and Merry finds it difficult to understand what he is being asked. Finds it hard, in fact, to understand much beyond the fact he seems to have swooned again, as he did that time outside the Prancing Pony.

He comes to a little more, as he realises that Pippin is looking anxious, and that he shouldn't be. He tries to reassure, and opens his mouth, but nothing much comes out. So he smiles instead, and Pippin looks relieved, so that's all right then.

Boromir is talking again, his voice buzzing in his chest, with Merry pressed tight against him as he is, and that feels good as well. Merry feels almost sleepy, or at least numb. He wonders if he should ask Boromir to let him go, he's perfectly safe now. The arrow didn't hit him, and the black whatever-it-was is shot down. He can hear splashing now, a familiar noise and his palms throb in response. Is there really going to be more paddling? Botheration.

He tries to sit up and help, and instead sways alarmingly, his head spinning. He's really rather grateful when instead Boromir pushes him down and makes Merry rest his head on his knee. Pippin shifts a little and scrambles so he can still paddle with his side and legs pressed tight against Merry's. There is a brief caress, a rough drag of thick fingers through his curls, and a quick squeeze from smaller, more cousinly hands, before the familiar rhythm of the boat is taken up once more.

Merry is beginning to feel again, the sudden shock of cold fading into merely an evil dream. He's coming back to himself enough to realise that whatever was shot down, whatever flew in the darkness, it knew him. Somehow. It knew him. And if he was less sleepy, he might have time now to be afraid.

Orcs and evil that flies in the night. He turns his cheek into the soft leather he rests upon, and feels the limber movements of Pippin as he paddles. His friends are near. But there is evil all around. He will not worry them further by explaining. Perhaps when they finally stop for the night, he will try and have a word with Aragorn, quietly, where the others can't hear. He doesn't want to be a danger. If these creatures, these – and his hand clenches roughly in the wool of his cloak, as he suddenly realises what they must be – these newly-horsed Black Riders, can sense him too, then he may be putting the entire Fellowship in jeopardy by his very presence.

And that he could not bear.

He clenches his cloak harder, twisting the fabric as he begins to shiver, bone-deep wrenching shudders, that he tries to suppress. He will have a word with Aragorn, and see what he suggests. And if Strider says that he is sure they will travel fast enough on the Anduin that the Riders cannot follow them easily, or that they will deal with the problem when it arises again, or that he must not think about it, Merry. Well, then. He knows what he must do.

Merry doesn't think his shivering is just the cold that the Rider left behind. He knows he doesn't want to leave his friends. Dear Frodo and Sam. Dearest Pippin. Good old Boromir. But better one small hobbit is lost in the wilderness, a decoy to draw away evil, than the whole mission failing.

He strokes his cheek briefly against the warmth of Boromir's knee, and longs suddenly for Gandalf. Surely this is a choice too big for one small hobbit? Except that there are no small choices anymore. And he came to help Frodo, to support him. And if he is no longer any help, then he must face that too.

He doesn't want to leave, but if he must, then he will. And as he lies there, he feels Pippin pausing in his paddling long enough to reassuringly squeeze his shoulder, which makes Merry blink rather fast in the cool night air. Fiercely then, Merry grins up at him in return, and reaches out a hand to clutch at the corner of Pip's cloak as well as his own. No, he doesn't want to leave. But the hare probably doesn't want to be chased by the hound either, when it comes right down to it, and probably has as little choice.

He'll swim for a bit, he thinks as he stares up at the absent stars, he'll swim for a bit to make sure Aragorn can't track him. That'll make it harder for the orcs too, and the wolves…

Because people do as their nature dictates, do they not? And as necessity drives them. Gandalf might call it foolish, but…

Merry refuses to be a burden.


End file.
